Tiny Tests of Integrity

Sometimes I think that we are all being tested during our time here on earth. Are we tested for our strength? Not our physical strength, but our inner strength. Our strength to endure things that we never thought we could endure. Are we tested for our love? Not our physical love, but our love of others, love of nature, love of all the blessings that have been bestowed upon us. Are we tested for our blessings? Not the blessings we receive, but the blessings we can bestow upon others. Are we tested for our knowledge? Not knowledge in the sense of how smart we are, but knowledge in the sense of whether or not we realize how many wonderful gifts we’ve been given: gifts of strength, endurance, love, and all the blessings that come with them.

Are we tested for our honor and integrity? I think we are. Throughout life, I’ve seen myself go through many tiny tests of integrity. It’s the simple little things that many people wouldn’t think were tests at all that I believe are tiny pieces of our big picture. It’s those simple little things we go through each day in our life and the choices we make that mold us into who we are and state whether or not our integrity is still in tact.

I went to the bank yesterday to make a deposit for my uncle and cash a few checks I received in the mail last week. I had the total of the checks, $105, stuffed back in a corner of my brain behind the list of errands I wanted to complete. As I waited for the teller to punch the keys of the keyboard on her computer, my brain was overflowing—thinking of the next thing on my errand list. I glanced around at the people in the bank, nearly a dozen, and casually watched them converse with other bank employees. When the teller came back to my window, she handed me my deposit receipt and counted out the money from the cashed checks. My mind swung back to my errand list as she put the money in an envelope and handed it to me. Normally, I count the cash again, right at the window in front of the teller, but I was anxious to get my errands completed, and I stuffed the envelope into my purse.

I walked out of the bank, opened the car door, and Two Feather asked me what was wrong. “I don’t know, maybe nothing,” I said. Something didn’t seem right to me as I walked out of the bank, but I couldn’t pinpoint what it was. I guess the expression on my face showed I was unsure of something. I put my purse on the seat and pulled out the bank envelope. “I think the teller counted wrong,” I said. “I was in a hurry and wasn’t paying much attention, but I think she gave me too much money.”

“You didn’t count it before you left the window? You always count the cash before you leave the window,” he said.

“No, I didn’t. I don’t know why. I was thinking of everything we had to do today.”

I pulled the cash out of the envelope and counted it. There was $145 in my hand. I put the money back in the envelope, went back into the bank, and called the teller over to the side. I told her I had three checks that totaled $105. She went to her station to pull out the checks and said, “Yes, it was $105.” I told her she had given me too much money. She looked at the checks again and said, “I thought I’d missed a check. I must have ran it through twice.” I handed her $40 back. She thanked me as she looked at the checks and her copy of the receipt and shook her head. She thanked me again before I walked out the door and I heard her telling the employee next to her, “You don’t see that type of honesty too often.” I turned, smiled, and said, “Happy New Year.”

I was still smiling when I got in the car with Two Feather. With the way the world is today, I wondered how many others would have returned the money once they realized the teller’s mistake. It felt good to know that my integrity is still in tact.

Alzheimer's Patients Still Have Feelings and Still Love

Retired Supreme Court justice Sandra Day O'Connor's husband has had Alzheimer’s for more than 17 years. Recently she moved him into an assisted living facility where he’s met and fallen in love with another Alzheimer’s patient.

In this article, “Forgetting long-time bonds, Alzheimer's patients fall in love” Rubin Dessel, head of memory care services at the Hebrew Home care facility in New York, said he “can't quantify how often this type of situation occurs, but it will continue to occur in greater number as the years go by.”

People with Alzheimer’s lose their memory day by day; they live moment-to-moment forgetting their past, their children, even their spouses.

Though Dessel can’t put a percentage on the incidence of Alzheimer’s patients forgetting their loved ones and moving on to another relationship, he is correct in stating that it does occur and will continue to occur.

Caring for a loved one with Alzheimer’s is heartbreaking in itself, and I applaud O’Connor’s love for her husband, which allows her to feel somewhat relieved seeing him happy and enjoying life with another woman. It takes selfless people to care more about someone else’s feelings than their own.

My mom is a widow of nearly 10 years. I feel that if I hadn’t stayed close by her after my dad died, she probably wouldn’t be around today. I kept her active. We went everywhere and did everything together. We went to homemakers together; seven to ten women my mother’s age, and me, thirty years younger, sat around tables in the community room above the police station for three to four hours once a month making crafts, eating lunch, and sharing conversation and memories. Why did I attend a monthly meeting with women so much older than me? Because my mom wanted me to be there; she enjoyed my company and wanted to share as much time with me as possible.

Then, together, Mom and I shopped for groceries, Christmas presents, went to lunch, the hairdresser, took bus tours, spent days cooking meals and cookies, and spent hours at each other’s homes just talking. She came to my house for dinner at least twice a week and we even took our dogs to the vet and to be groomed at the same time and scheduled our dentist appointments back to back.

She once told me that my brother told her she “needed to get out more and do things with friends” and my mom responded that she “did get out and do things and was happy spending time with me.” In return, she was told, “But she’s your daughter, not your friend.” Mom told me she was angry and hurt by his response and said, “Joanne may be my daughter, but she’s also my best friend.”

Now, Mom with Alzheimer’s spends the day at a day care facility where she gets her hair done once a month, has lunch and goes on outings with other clients, and I shop for groceries and presents and take the dogs for appointments without her.

What does all this have to do with Sandra Day O’Connor? Mom has an admirer at the day care; a bus brings Mr. N. to the facility while his wife goes off to work. Mom’s talked about him daily for the past year and giggles like a school girl when she talks about how they dance together every week when the ‘music man’ comes to play oldies from their era. When the caregivers at the facility first told me about the little romance, my heart broke because she had forgotten my dad, but I soon got over that when I saw how full of life and happy she seemed to be. When I saw them dance together at this summer’s family picnic, I cried, not because she forgot my dad, but because she was enjoying herself—life had meaning to her once again.

Mom and Mr. N. sat together occasionally and chatted since the first day I took her to day care. Those little chats have transformed into handholding and kisses on the cheek. He pulls her chair out for her and asks her constantly if she’s okay.

This past Thanksgiving weekend Mom woke up several times during the night and thought Mr. N. was in her house. She sat on the edge of the bed talking toward the doorway of her bedroom. When I heard her through the monitor I went downstairs to find out what she was talking about. She swore up and down that Mr. N. was there and she wouldn’t have invited him over if she thought he would have come so late. Five times she awoke each night saying the same thing. For three nights I told her she was dreaming and tucked her back into bed.

It was on Tuesday, my mom and dad’s anniversary, that the caregivers told me that my mom and Mr. N. talked about ‘going out’ to lunch or a movie and since neither of them can drive any longer, maybe ‘Mrs. N.’ could take them where they want to go. It all sounds so strange, and of course the date will never happen, but for the moment they are talking about it, they are happy.

I told the caregivers at the day care about my weekend with Mom and I joked, “If I had known this before Thanksgiving, I would have sent Mom home on the bus with Mr. N. over Thanksgiving weekend and let ‘Mrs. N.’ deal with Mom’s three-night long conversation with her husband.”

It wasn’t so cute at 4:00 AM when I was dealing with it, but now that I’ve had a chance to catch up on some sleep, I smile at the thought that my mom is acting like a school girl and is smitten by someone, who when I look at him closely, has many of my dad’s features. I’m not sure if ‘Mrs. N.’ feels as O’Connor does, but I’m happy for them. I’ll always be Mom’s daughter, but it looks like Mom has a new best friend—someone she enjoys being with, talking to, and spending her time with. My smile deepens, I’ll admit, when I think of my bother’s hurtful words to my mom years ago. I don’t think he could be so selfless to accept that Mom’s new best friend is a married man.

If we learn one thing as caregivers, we learn that our loved ones still have feelings and they still remember how to love. That may be the only good thing about this disease, as well.

Alzheimer's -- Living Day by Day, Moment to Moment

In my last post, I showed you pictures of my daughter’s visit last weekend. Those were the good points of the visit; snap shots of family members who drive for hours to visit Mom and me once a month with hopes that she’ll remember them just a little bit longer.

With Alzheimer’s Disease you never know from one moment to the next what your loved one remembers, or what they don’t. You can only hope that each day as a caregiver you’ve made them comfortable, given them the loving support they need to live with dignity, and pray that when they wake in the morning, they remember who you are. And when the day comes that they ask, “Who are you?” you pray for the strength to hold back the tears and answer.

Even as often as my daughters Angel and Stacey visit, my mom didn’t recognize my daughter Stacey this past weekend. Mom watched her as she talked, spoke to her as if she knew her, then, she asked, “Do you have kids?” Stacey smiled, and without hesitation said, “Yes, two. My daughter, Trinity, is seven, and my son, Quenton, is two.” My heart ached for my daughter because Mom didn’t know her; my daughter’s heart ached for her grandmother’s memory loss, rather than for herself.

I’m proud of both my daughters, for understanding the disease, for taking the time out of their busy schedules and making it a point to travel four hours to visit, and for being the loving daughters and granddaughters they are.

It’s sad watching my mom’s mind fade. I see a piece of her slip away each day. I miss my mom; the vibrant happy woman who was always so excited to see her grandchildren and great-grandchildren visit; the woman who talked to me, mother to daughter, for hours; the woman who gave me life and loved me unconditionally. Yes, my mom is still here, but the person she was is gone.

She moves slower and slower each day. I dress her in the morning; get her situated in her chair at the kitchen table, talk to her while I make her breakfast, and watch her expressions to tell me what kind of day she will have. If she has difficulty finding her mouth with the utensils, I know she’s having a bad day. Though she’s overweight for her size, she’s not lost weight with her diminished appetite. She struggles to get out of her chair and I come to her aid. She ain’t heavy, she’s my mother.

Mom’s always tired by 4:00 PM, but I’ve noticed in the last week that she seems more exhausted than usual. Less talkative and less aware of her surroundings. The intermittent memories are no longer coming back to her. Out of sight, out of mind.

Yesterday morning we were sitting in the living room and I noticed her frown as her eyes scanned the many pictures on her bookshelf. I didn’t need to ask if she knew the people in the photographs. The wrinkles in her forehead told me she wondered who they were. I stood up, walked to the pictures, pulled them off the shelf, and took them to her. I handed her a photo of my dad. She knew Dad. The next two photos were of her grandson, his wife, and two daughters. She had no idea who they were. The next picture was of my brother, her oldest son, and his wife. She said they looked like someone she knew, but she didn’t know who they were. The next picture was of my second brother, her son, and his wife, but she didn’t know them either. The next picture was a four-generation picture taken five years ago with her, my two daughters, my granddaughter and me. She knew herself.

I placed the pictures back on the shelf and prayed for strength in handling the next stage of Alzheimer’s disease.

When my mom didn’t recognize my daughter last weekend, I thought Mom slipped to a new stage in the disease. When she didn’t recall the visit after a reminding prompt, I knew.

We moved from the living room to the kitchen for an early lunch. She looked around as she sat and said, “Dad built those cabinets. I remember because you told me he did.” I answered, “Yes, he did. He was a wonderful carpenter.”

I turned to smile at her and saw her eyes filled with tears and her chin quiver as she struggled to speak. “Was? You mean he’s gone? Did he pass away? When?” As she sobbed, I knelt next to her chair to comfort her. I held her, wishing I could do more than apologize for not realizing she didn’t remember he was gone. “I thought he was at work,” she said, as I dried her tears. My dad passed away nine years ago. Last week she remembered that. Today, she didn’t.

My brother called and said he was coming to visit. When he walked in the door, I knew she didn’t recognize him. I asked her if she knew who he was. She said “no”.

That was yesterday. Today was not better.

I woke up Mom as I normally do every morning, placed her clothes on the bed, and walked her to the bathroom. Before we made it to the bathroom door she began to sob uncontrollably. I sat her in the kitchen chair and asked her what was wrong. Her words shocked me. “I’m dying,” she said. My mom never speaks of death and if the subject is ever brought up, she changes it. For her to say she’s dying was an utter shock to me. “Why do you say that, Mom?” I asked. Her answer was short, quick, and heartbreaking. “Because I am. I can feel it, and I’m scared.”

I did the only thing I knew to do, hug her. And I responded with the first thing that came to my mind, my dad.

“Mom, don’t be afraid. When it’s your time, you’ll be with Dad again, and that’s something to look forward to.”

“You’re right,” she said. “I never thought of it like that.”

She dried her tears and we continued with our day; getting her shower, getting her dressed, and getting her breakfast. The day continued on a similar note with her watching me in the same way she watched my daughter last week. She talked, constantly asking questions; she asked about her house, how long she’s lived there, where was my husband and why doesn’t he stay here with her and me, and she asked if I’d be okay when she died.

“I’ll be okay, Mom. Don’t worry about me.”

As the day progressed, she regressed, and by 4:00 PM she was once again exhausted. She wanted to go to bed earlier than usual, and after the rough weekend we’d had, I was inclined to agree, so we started our bedtime routine.

Every night for the past three years my mom has said the same words to me as I dress her for bed. “Thank you, honey, for staying with me and taking care of me. You’re a wonderful daughter and I love you.”

Tonight, she didn’t say those words.

Tonight, she asked, “Who are you?”

I bit my lip, held back the tears and said, “I’m your daughter.”

Her eyes brightened and she gasped, “You’re my daughter. That’s wonderful!”

“Do you know my name?” I asked.

“No, will you tell me?”

“Joanne. My name is Joanne, Mom.”

“That’s a beautiful name. Did I give it to you?”

“Yes, Mom. You did.”

I hugged Mom, kissed her, and tucked her into bed as usual.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too. You’d better get some sleep. You’re going to need it,” she said.

“Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I don’t think so. Get some sleep. You’re going to need it,” she said again.
I kissed her forehead and walked out of her room repeating, “I love you, Mom. Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Since then, for the past six hours, I’ve been sitting in my room upstairs, in deep thought-- a sort of stunned, dazed frame of mind. Each day for three years I’ve never known what the next day might bring. We’ve lived day by day, moment to moment, not knowing what the next moment might be like, but I’ve cherished every moment I’ve had with her.

I don’t know what tomorrow might bring, but with her strange discussions this weekend, I do know I’ll be staying close to her side, rather than listening to her breathing come through a baby monitor in my room.

For her sake, when it is her time, I pray she passes peacefully in her sleep. And when she does, I know she’ll be in a better place and she’ll be okay.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her, I won’t.

Good night, Mom. I love you. I’ll see you in the morning.

A Tribute to My Significant Other Two Feather

Last week I went grocery shopping. My Significant Other, Two Feather, who always helps me with mundane chores, carried more than a dozen grocery bags into my mom’s house for me, and waited patiently while I hurriedly unpacked the bags and placed the groceries where they belong.

He’s such a patient and understanding man to live separate from me, alone in my house, while I live with Mom in hers as her caregiver. We have few hours together each week, yet he hasn’t complained that those few hours are spent helping me with the everyday needs like shopping, taking Mom’s dog to the groomer, picking up her medication, and having only an hour left to spend quality time together.

Every day he travels through the woods, through all types of weather. He shovels the snow from the sidewalk, plows the driveway, gets the mail and paper, fixes things around the house, takes the garbage to the end of the driveway every week, and does everything that needs done. All this from a man who has no vested interest except love and respect—to make sure that my mother and I are well, and that there will be something left of me, for him, when my days of care giving are complete.

I mention these things not only because Two Feather is my rock and my foundation, but because he said something to me that day that I wish others could see in me as well. Others, who should see it and should know it, but can’t see past their contempt for me.

He said, “What you’re doing is an honorable thing, Joanne. You’re a good, caring and loving person. People who can’t see the kindness, love, and unselfishness you have in your heart, are not worth your stress.”

He’s right, of course, my daughters have told me the same thing. But there’s that part of me that WAS unwilling to give up. That “STUPID” part of my brain and heart that tells me to keep trying—to try and make people realize I’m not the person they think so lowly of.

It wasn’t until Two Feather said this, that I realized I need to quit trying. It’s not my job to conciliate or placate others to help them understand me. It’s not worth my time to try, and then end up belittled, scorned, or hung up on when I’m trying to speak from my heart. It’s not worth the heartache and stress.

So, I’m going to cherish those who do understand me, those who do make an effort, and those who do know me for who I am. And I’m going to cherish the time I have with my mom and ensure that whatever time she has left on this earth will be filled with the love I have to offer, selflessly. The least I can do for a woman who gave me life is to give it back, day by day, and know in my heart that I’m doing what is best for the safety, welfare, and dignity of a woman who has selflessly shared so much with her children.

I know, even though she may not remember, I’m doing what she requested. And though he’s gone, I know my dad would be proud of me for giving selflessly of myself as they did for us.

So on this very special day, I honor my SO, Two Feather, for all the love, compassion, patience, and selflessness he has shown Mom and me and the two elderly neighbors on the road to my mom’s house. He is truly a blessing to us all and it is with utmost respect and love I say “thank you” for everything you’ve done, said, and kept to yourself, during this difficult time we share.

I cherish each moment I get to spend with you and pray we have many more moments and years together. I love you, Two. Thank you for being you, and for being there for me. Happy Valentine’s Day!